CamusFanboyy
She was never the chosen one. Not the prophecy kid, not the golden child, not even someone worth remembering. Just another name scrawled on a bunk bed frame, another pair of shoes by the cabin door. But rage has a way of growing in the quiet places-between bruised ribs and unanswered prayers, under sleeping bags gone missing, in the long shadows of someone else's legacy. And when the war came, she didn't rise. She drowned.